


Venus Ascending

by sangueuk



Series: Planets in Alignment [2]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Blood, Dubious Consent, M/M, Mirror Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-18
Updated: 2011-08-18
Packaged: 2017-10-22 19:28:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sangueuk/pseuds/sangueuk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gaila and Cupcake bring cadet Kirk a very special birthday gift in the middle of the night. A sequel to <a> Planets in Alignment        </a> and the dynamics in this story will make more sense if you have read it.</p><p> </p><p><b>intriguing snippet</b> <i> Kirk cants his head and appraises McCoy. Fuck he looks good with his weight pinned between Cupcake and Gaila, hands tied behind him, broad shoulders tense, dress shirt covered in spots of blood, button holes torn, revealing tantalizing glimpses of a fine chest. Kirk hungrily searching for scars, but there’s none he can see - yet.<br/></i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [weepingnaiad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/weepingnaiad/gifts).



> A birthday gift for weepingnaid
> 
> thanks to beta reader, awarrington!

_Jimmy doesn’t dare move, because then it might stop, and he’s sure all he has to do is fucking **breathe** wrong, and the spell will break. _

_It’s a delicate whisper of plump flesh to his lips, soft, insistent, and Jimmy yields, he can’t help himself; Carol’s tongue is warm and fresh, so present with a hint of strawberries and mint._

 _He knows he should be pushing her away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand to erase this taste, this nectar he could so easily become addicted to. But Jimmy can’t move and he sighs when he feels Carol shifting beside him, her legs rolling against his._

 _They’re in the shade of a willow tree; heavy, hanging branches breaking the perfect blue of the sky, making him almost giddy as they sway above him in the faint breeze. The grass is cool under his shins and spiky, broken twigs stick to his calves when he moves to accommodate Carol’s slender body. Her moans egg him on. Jimmy’s lips part and he angles his head to gain more ready access to her mouth, his cock straining in his shorts; he feels oddly vulnerable, and thinks dimly how, yeah, he knew it always felt like something was missing from fucking before._

 _“Carol,” he manages, when they break for air._

 _She lifts her head, eases onto her forearms. Corn blue eyes contemplate him, cold and calculating and Jimmy experiences a twitch of anxiety right before she bends and her teeth clamp hard, viciously onto his lower lip, like a bitch chastising a pup._

 _“What the fuck?” The metallic taste of blood coats his tongue and Jimmy spits, rubbing at his mouth, the heel of his hand sliding against blood. He scrambles to his feet, shoves her away. “Whatch’you do that for?”_

 _Carol’s lips are pink, puffy, moist from his mouth, but sneering; she’s looking at him like he’s a piece of shit or something._

 _“You like **kissing**!” she crows, drawing out the last word because now she knows, **knows** what a freak he is. “Like the fucking Romulans!”_

 _Her hectoring tone cuts through him, shredding pride, stomping on his heart, and flushing out any softness festering inside._

 _Good, he thinks, watching her figure retreating into the meadow, his chest heaving with the effort it takes to quell any tears – this will better prepare him for court. He’s learned a valuable lesson._

+++

 

 _Admirals’ Block, Starfleet Academy_

Kirk’s roused by the unmistakable sound of boots kicking at the door to the hall. It’s like the drop on the gallows, the way he lurches upright, his dream evaporating; his dagger’s already in his hand and don’t fuck with me attitude on eleven. Adrenaline skitters through his skin like static, makes his cock half hard, has him dancing on the balls of his feet, tongue snaking his lip as he automatically channels fear into eagerness for a fight.

“Computer, intruder -- alert security and secure building!”

Oddly, the computer seems to take its time answering. It’s long enough for Kirk to make out the three figures silhouetted in the doorway before the computer’s baritone announces:

 _“Security override by Cadet F’r’ha Jani. Breech to security, negative, Cadet Kirk.”_

“Lights!” Kirk says, kicking away the sheets round his ankles, holding onto his dagger but allowing his shoulders to drop.

“Good _morning_ , Cadet F’r’ha Jani, ” Kirk addresses Gaila with exaggerated mock politeness adding a half bow for good measure. He lowers his hand, the knife resting against his naked thigh, and he doesn’t smother his grin. “Is this for _me_?” Kirk touches his chest and circles the little group.

“Special delivery, Cadet Kirk,” she grins, hair glowing in the artificial light, chest heaving with the effort of restraining her captive. “I hope you do not mind the lack of gift wrap?”

Kirk shakes his head and smirks. “Well, if it isn’t _Bones_.”

++++

 _Two years before – the McCoy Plantation House_

“Joanna, the gods be praised, hasn’t turned out anything like the Darnells, Leo. We can count ourselves lucky for some things; but mind me, that bitch wife of yours, she’ll dispose of you soon as she gets a sniff of someone with a bit of power, and you’ll lose our baby-girl. Don’t let that happen. _Promise me_!” Eleanor jabs a swollen finger in McCoy’s direction.

“Gram, I…” he watches the taught sinews in Eleanor’s neck, exertion and the passion of her words giving her pale cheeks a flush he hasn’t seen in way too long.

“Hush, Leo, let me _finish_! I’m going to be dead soon and you’ll have plenty time enough to run your mouth when I’m gone; now there’s things I need to say to you, things I need to put to rest.” Eleanor takes a shaky breath though, McCoy thinks wearily, she’s never too tired or sick to spare him her temper. He rubs an eye, waits for her to continue.

“You’re hopeless, Leo - you put me in mind of a sentimental dog the way you mooch around. Despite all the opportunities, your good family name and the best education - you’re stuck on healing and helping.” Her nostrils flare when she makes no effort to hide her disgust and McCoy flushes, looks away. “There’s no place to put you and it worries me knowing you won’t last five minutes out there when I’m gone.” She pats her hand on the lace coverlet. “Look at me, Leo! I can’t die knowin’ you’re hiding out in a quiet country surgery for the rest of your days, wasting that brain of yours. It’s time you got back in the water, not for you, but for your baby girl, so’s she turns out right. Lord knows there’s no one in this room fit to keep the McCoy name where it belongs.”

McCoy clears his throat. “Gram she’s three years old, how can you—?”

“—are you _questioning_ me, Leonard Horatio?”

McCoy smiles despite himself, but damn he’s going to miss her. “No, Gram, only a damned fool would question you.” He can’t quell the tremble in his voice, feels the tears clouding his vision. Damn, she’s right, _again_. He is a sentimental fool.

“Thank you, kindly; now, let me finish.” She indicates the glass of water by the bed, and McCoy frowns and brings it to her lips. When she’s finished, he dabs her mouth and sits back down for the rest of his lecture.

Other than a nurse sitting reading a PADD in the corner of the room, it’s just the two of them in Eleanor’s opulent bedroom transformed to an infirmary for her last days; how far from the houseful of parties and intrigue he’s visited so often.

“See, Leo, for all your sentimentality, you don’t know a thing about _real_ feeling. Yeah, survival’s all about power, but you know what gives power direction, fuel?” McCoy shakes his head, taking her dry hand in his, glancing at the monitor’s dials shifting and settling each time she moves or her voice peaks. “Love,” she says with force, sinking back into her pillows.

Stunned at her words, McCoy glares at the nurse and adopts his most commanding voice. “Step outside, Connors; I’ll let you know when we’re ready for you to witness. For now, Mrs McCoy and I have private matters to discuss.” McCoy attempts a casual pose in his arm chair and crosses his legs, holds the nurse’s gaze until Connors nods and steps outside.

“He’ll only look at the vid feed soon as we’re done. It’s pointless sending him out, Leo; bribe him, threaten him; use your goddamn _stones_ for once.”

It’s not that McCoy doesn’t know how to be a hard-ass, it’s just…but he nods, looks at his lap, unfurls his clenched fists. He can fix the vid feed, it’s one of the lessons of survival he’s had to learn, after all.

Gram gathers herself, and lets out a sharp breath.

“We don’t talk about love these days; they say it’s a weakness, makes you act like a damned fool, takes away your judgment – that’s what _they’ll_ have us believe. But you take heed of my words, Leo, I know,” she punctuates her words with a raised finger. “We shroud our love in ambition and plans, and we kill and maim to get what we want, many of us for power, others who aren’t so well connected just to see in the next day – and that’s natural. And no one would question that the love we feel for our kids, for our grandchildren…it’s why we care about family in the first place.”

Despite the harsh words, Eleanor’s flint eyes are fond, brimming with tears. He glances nervously at the dials, then at the case of deadly vials he’s rested on the floor by his feet. It’s the day Eleanor’s chosen to be her last and she’s insisted it should be him, rather than a stranger. It should be easier this time, easier than with his daddy but…fuck…her voice brings him back to the moment.

“I love you Leonard, more than I loved my own son. I wanted you to have this,” her fierce eyes scan the room. “But I give it to you now. I might as well wrap a pink bow around the plantation and hand it over to the Darnells.

“You bought into the whole bullshit - you ‘realized’ it was foolish to marry for love, that’s why you went along with David’s insistence you take up with the bitch but, I’ll let you into a secret…” she shoots a sideways look at the security camera until McCoy stands and angles his body, blocks the view temporarily. He adjusts her pain meds and leans close. “I loved your granpa, Horatio; he loved me too, and maybe love is an affliction in some ways, but Leo, trust me, it’s all we got in these dog days.

“Love’s why we stick by each other, the only reason you can’t be bought, and the one reason you can trust.” She’s becoming breathless, overdoing it again. Damn, why won’t she ever listen to him?

“Gram, you gotta be careful,” Leo whispers close to her face and inhales a note of violets from her expensive cologne. She’s in velvet and silk even now, ridiculously expensive calf skin slippers by the bed, chamber music playing like they’re back in the eighteenth century. Eleanor McCoy, still dressing like a queen in her centuries old plantation house, with her slaves, the cotton harvest, playing with the pastoral myth like the great Marie Antoinette.

“What they gonna do - kill me?” Eleanor grumbles. He raises an eyebrow, can’t help smiling at the way she rolls her pale blue eyes at him. “Which brings me to James Kirk. I’ve watched his rise closely, and he’s the one I’ve chosen for you.”

Not this again.

McCoy drops into the armchair with a defeated huff.

It’s pointless to argue – after all, Eleanor won’t see in the sunset. But _how_ can she be so certain? This notion of hers is crazy is what it is, but she won’t let it drop.

He shakes his head. “He’s like the rest of them, Gram, he’s a f—” He just manages to stop himself cussing. “He’s a psychopath. First you’re tellin’ me to cut my ties with Joss, next breath – you’re feeding me to the sharks?”

She slaps his hand, lets out an irritable sigh. “God dammit, Leo, are you even listenin’ to me?”

“‘Course I am, but what the hell’s this gotta do with… love?” He whispers the last word.

Eleanor closes her eyes like she’s trying to contain her famous temper. “His daddy,” she says with exaggerated emphasis. “I knew him; they like to say he gave up his life for the Empire, but that’s bullshit propaganda. Just because folk don’t talk about it, doesn’t change the truth; it was all for Winona, their unborn son, for James.

“Mind me, Leo, these notions run deep in a family; it’ll be in James’ blood, in the legend of his birth. What I know about Winona Kirk, the way she’ll have raised her son, you cut beneath his skin, I’d bet my right eye you’d find a keenness for love just like hers.” She tries to sit up, her eyes intent on his face. ”I’d stake my life on it.”

“And now you wanna stake mine?”

“No, Leo.” She drops her voice. “I’m looking out for you. For you, for Joanna Eleanor, for family. We smart women have to settle for bein’ puppeteers in the background till things change one day and…”

“And you think Jo-Jo’s gonna change things?” McCoy shakes his head.

“I don’t think, I _know_. With Kirk behind her, with you loving him, watching his back - he’ll be invincible and you might last out a few more summers. And his mamma will have taught him well. Every great man’s gotta have someone they can trust. Then Joanna’s got a chance.”

“So you’re sayin’ I should pretend to love him, gain his patronage over my baby girl and everything’ll be fine and dandy? Well that’s going to be simple as pie...” Unbelievable.

“And you can take that tone out of your voice. When have I ever been wrong about anything?” Dammit, he _wasn’t_ going to argue, not when she’s got so little time left but… “Mind my words, Leonard McCoy, you need to get close, you need to make Kirk notice you; stare him down, show him that pretty face of yours, _make_ him trust you.”

“Gram, a man can’t fall in love on command, it’s crazy is what it is.”

“Well, if you ask me, Kirk’s half-way there already.”

Oh, for the love of…“That was years ago, he was just a kid, and, if I recall, we didn’t exactly…bond. Assholes like that don’t like people to see their weaknesses.”

“So use your _brain_! Pretend like you haven’t noticed.”

McCoy thinks back to that time at the Kirk ranch nearly ten years back…

 _Irritated by the schmoozing and networking, he’d wandered off into the meadows to stretch his legs. A skinny blond girl had raced out from under a willow, laughing, wiping at her mouth; she’d shot McCoy a look of triumph that, even in the relative innocence of his late teens, he knew came from having uncovered some poor fuck’s weakness; it was the way Joss used to look at McCoy in later years, when he fucked her, like he was a wildebeest at a waterhole, oblivious to how she was gonna tear his throat out soon as his defenses were down._

 _McCoy tracked the girl’s progress to the house where, a few minutes later, he heard a delighted squeal from the gathered teenagers under the gazebo on the front lawn. He wondered idly what piece of gossip she was might be sharing._

 _“I’m gonna cut her heart out and make her eat it.”_

 _McCoy’s head snapped round for the source of the cut glass voice. Though McCoy hadn’t set eyes on the kid since their arrival that morning, he knew he was looking at an aspiring delinquent. James Kirk; had to be - he had his mother’s calculating eyes, the same wiry frame and, it seemed, his father’s propensity for original forms of violence._

 _“That’s no way to treat a lady,” McCoy had drawled, stepping towards Kirk. He noted the kid’s cheek was blood stained, smears on his jaw and hand too; maybe he’d been in a fight or fallen down, bitten his tongue. “Let me take a look at that mouth of yours, I’m in med school… looks like it might become infected.”_

 _The kid licked at his lip, nodded and stood absolutely still while McCoy examined his mouth, pulled the lower lip out, Kirk’s eyes remained fixed on a point on McCoy’s shoulder throughout. “I’ve got my daddy’s regen in the house, want me to get it? Shit, how’d you do this, kid? In a fight with a dog?”_

 _And that’s when the fucker punched him clean on the jaw with surprising strength for what, a thirteen? fourteen-year old? It sent McCoy sprawling, swearing a blue streak. He glared a thousand daggers into the brat’s back, watched him saunter back to the party and vault the hip high fence rather than walk through the gate. Kirk ran a hand through messy hair, brushed at his clothing and took the side entrance to the house - avoiding the lawn and the fifty or so guests. McCoy waited a beat and strolled as casually as he could to return to Gram’s side resisting the urge to massage his injury and count his teeth, and absolutely ignoring Eleanor’s pointed, _knowing_ (damn her) look. _

Later, McCoy had seethed, glaring at the kid across flirting, scheming party guests, meeting Kirk’s lazy stare with a raised eyebrow and then doing his damndest to ignore him for the rest of their visit.

McCoy hadn’t given it a second thought for years, why would he? Until Gram had brought it up a few months ago and she mentioned how she’d noticed the way Kirk hadn’t taken his eyes off McCoy all night. It had got her thinking, she said, even back then.

“He’s the one, Leonard,” she says now, gripping his hand with pale, inflamed fingers, bringing him back to the present. “Remember, Kirk’s the best chance for you and Joanna. _Promise me_ you’ll take that chance.”

 

+++

 

 _Admirals’ Block – Starfleet Academy_

Kirk cants his head and appraises McCoy. Fuck he looks good with his weight pinned between Cupcake and Gaila, hands tied behind him, broad shoulders tense, dress shirt covered in spots of blood, button holes torn, revealing tantalizing glimpses of a fine chest. Kirk hungrily searching for scars, but there’s none he can see - yet.

“Happy Birthday, Kirk,” Gaila croons, a hint of an accent in her standard.

“You really _shouldn’t_ have—” Kirk says evenly, taking a step towards them.

“Fuck, you!” McCoy spits a spray of blood and saliva. Kirk’s grins wide – damn, the doc looks fuckable all riled up. And patently not as intimidated as he should be by his situation; you’d think McCoy had just trodden in dog shit rather than been kidnapped from wherever he was at…Kirk’s eyes slide to the chrono…03:00.

Cupcake’s got one hand on his captive’s left shoulder, the other on the doc’s bicep and twists his fingers tighter when McCoy tries to shrug him off. Still, Kirk notices, Cupcake knows to keep his mouth shut having learned quick that banter’s always strictly between him and Gaila: there’s a scar Cupcake knew better than to have fixed, where Kirk tore his mouth open the last time he made a wise-ass comment. Since then, Kirk’s sure it’s no coincidence the man sports a permanent five o’clock shadow; it’s like he can’t bear to look at himself in the mirror to shave.

“But maybe we didn’t need the dramatic entrance—” Kirk continues.

His ‘birthday gift’ snorts and there’s the faintest bubble of pink snot which, you know, just kills Kirk – it’s such a delicious picture of vulnerability. The juxtaposition of bound hands, blood painted shirt and snarly, bruised lips, on the one hand, and dark eyes wild with contained belligerence on the other. It makes Kirk’s cock ache.

He reaches in a drawer and pulls out gleaming white, cotton boxer briefs; holding the dagger’s hilt between his teeth, he steps into them elegantly. He makes a little show of arranging his less than flaccid cock, noting Cupcake’s eyes-front stance, Gaila’s wink, and McCoy’s refusal to even _notice_ he’s naked.

When Kirk instructs the computer to switch on side lights, it amuses him how McCoy won’t meet his eyes. He’s pretty sure this is neither fear nor deference; McCoy’s survived a year at the academy without having been annihilated, proof he’s smarter than even his clutch of degrees. Since McCoy fixed Admiral Michiyo’s shredded face, it’s won him basic protection, plus Kirk’s seen vids of McCoy in combat training – the doc’s got some moves, enough to keep the bottom feeders off his back. McCoy makes up for what he lacks in natural viciousness with supreme reflexes, elegance and strength – that and those threats every medic learns to make the first day they pick up a hypo. It’s why Kirk’s got his own regen machine and hasn’t been anywhere near a doctor since joining Starfleet, in case they take the opportunity to heap some revenge or other on him while he’s at his weakest. His visit to the infirmary a couple of months ago, of course, was primarily to check out the doc up close, see if he was indeed the same guy he’d met when he was a kid back home.

Kirk thinks back to the first week at the academy, when he sat half naked beside Pike on his nu-buck couch, mouth bitter with come and sweet with ambition, reviewing files for those the captain had ear-marked for the _Enterprise_. There he was, that guy from when he was a kid, the crazy from the shuttle – Leonard McCoy glowering in academy reds, hair smooth and trimmed. Looking at McCoy now, face stippled in dry blood, yeah he was right – red is definitely _the_ color for the doc.

He leans in to examine McCoy’s face; he can practically feel pride radiating off the man’s skin. For all that he’s bound, each muscle tense, McCoy’s making little effort to get away. If it’s not surrender, maybe it’s his way of keeping control. McCoy’s ‘choosing’ to be this way. The attitude reminds Kirk of what Pike said to him once, when he fed his cock into Kirk’s mouth: _It’s like you’re doing me a favor, rather than the other way around._

Kirk’s tongue wets his lips.

“While you’re here, Bones,” he says brightly, “I can give you back that flask you loaned me. Truth is, it slipped my mind until now. You must have been worried sick—” And Jesus, just _look at him_ , bastard actually rolls his eyes. Kirk’s cock twitches.

McCoy mumbles something under his breath, something Cupcake takes umbrage to; so he finds that little bit of initiative to loosen his hold on McCoy’s arm to yank his head back by the hair. Kirk grins at the look of defiance, the dark, slanted eyes, the flared nostrils. Fuck he’s pretty.

“Show some respect, _doctor,_ ” Cupcake hisses, eyes flickering nervously to Kirk for approval. Kirk ignores him, focusing instead on the flushed skin of McCoy’s neck, wondering what it’ll feel like under his tongue and teeth.

“What do you want from me?” McCoy demands, twisting to shake the grip in his hair.

Kirk zones in on McCoy’s mouth when he speaks, lips a little dry but plump and over ripe. His hair’s mussed up, so different from the careful, combed style he’d worn in the infirmary, on the holos. It suits him. Kirk nods and Cupcake releases him.

“Or do you expect me to read your mind, like your ‘assistant’ here?” McCoy continues, voice thick with contempt.

“That’s an interesting question, Bones.” Kirk’s says it all deadpan, earning a worried look from Cupcake, who knows to his cost what _that_ tone is often the precursor of.

McCoy, on the other hand, has an ‘Oh, that’s what you’d call it’ expression on his face; it makes Kirk itch to bend him.

He’s finally standing close enough so he can smell McCoy’s breath, dry, maybe a little funky from the adrenaline in his system. It’s like a fucking aphrodisiac for Kirk, just makes him want to get closer, and he teases himself, inhales subtly, like a shark zoning in on its prey.

“Tell me, Gaila, whose idea was this? Yours or Cupcake’s?” Cupcake flinches almost imperceptibly.

“Jim, all good ideas come from you initially, it’s just my pleasure to read your mind.” She’s smiling serenely, and Kirk notes how McCoy’s eyes flicker between them. He won’t be the first trying to make sense of this relationship, wondering how Kirk can allow a _woman_ such familiarity as to use his first name.

Kirk extends a hand and Gaila releases her hold on McCoy, moving to Kirk’s side. Her winter coat rasps against his bare skin and he knows it’ll paint a pretty picture, paleness against dark wool. They watch McCoy’s face but, though his eyes narrow when Kirk strokes a thumb the length of Gaila’s temple, he’s still watching a point somewhere else in the room. This stubbornness warms Kirk from the inside.

“Thank you,” Kirk says and she beams, her eyes lighting up, same way they do when she’s carving up any fuck who gets in her way.

Kirk turns Gaila in a full circle, like the last move of a dance, and brings her hand to his mouth, opens it out so the palm’s facing upwards and slides his eyes towards McCoy again. He licks a stripe right up her life-line and lets go.

“Okay, ladies,” he says, tossing his dagger, “you’re dismissed. I think the good doctor’s feeling at home now, that right, McCoy?” He doesn’t answer and Kirk can see a slight twitch in his jaw. “Let’s take that as a yes.”

Cupcake glances at Gaila, releases McCoy’s arm, and nods reluctantly. Kirk watches in interest how McCoy’s jaw lifts in defiance.

The door swishes open, apparently undamaged; Gaila apparently timed the kicks with the access code so it was dramatic but not going to leave him exposed. Then the door flew open, alarm temporarily stalled by her genius mischief. Nice.

“Enjoy—” she purrs with a pretty toss of her oh-so-clever head.

Oh, he _will_.

Gaila winks at Kirk, slaps her hand to her chest in salute, mirrored by Cupcake and strides out, the lunkhead in pursuit.

Kirk takes a long but unobtrusive breath through his nose, managing to contain the anticipation; McCoy’s his to unwrap - who says his birthdays have to suck?

“You want a drink?”

McCoy flinches – Kirk’s taken him by surprise. Then he nods once, dark eyes trailing Kirk who moves to the bar, pours out three fingers for his guest, just one for himself.

“You gonna untie me?” McCoy’s voice betrays a slight hint of worry under pissed.

Kirk feels a shiver of want light up his groin. He waits a beat then shrugs. “I haven’t decided—”

He raises the glass and half closes his eyes to savor the aroma. The moment. He cocks his head, soaks up McCoy’s delicious glower and then downs the bourbon in one, chasing the last of its heat with a sweep of his tongue over his teeth.

“Look, Kirk—” McCoy starts. He’s dropped his voice, trying not to sound uppity but failing miserably. “Whatever you’re gonna do to me, make it quick…I’ve…well, I’m—”

Kirk realizes McCoy isn’t stammering; the gorgeous bastard’s actually measuring his words.

“Are you telling me what to _do_ ?” Kirk can’t hide the amusement. “You sure you haven’t been off-planet for the past couple of years, Bones?”

McCoy’s lips twitch at the way his new name’s stuck and there’s not a damn thing he can do about it.

“Well? _Bones_?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it—”

 _Finally_ McCoy looks at Kirk – a dagger throw – bull’s-eye, dark, furious eyes. Kirk blinks and feigns a ‘listening face’ to irritate the doc further, because seriously, he might be kind of addicted to that attitude already. “Kinda wish I had been off planet, seein’ as this godforsaken academy’s full of assholes.”

When Kirk backhands McCoy across the cheek, although it was way less than full force, he’s impressed that, even with hands bound, McCoy gets upright real quick, eyes flashing hatred, a fresh slide of blood escaping his nose.

Kirk watches coolly. In a futile gesture, McCoy rolls his shoulder, attempts to reach the injury and wipe away the blood. He’s breathing high in his chest, the last shirt button torn but holding tight. Wild eyes glare briefly at Kirk then he lets out a gust of breath through bared teeth making a concerted effort to rein himself in.

Kirk kicks away the glass at their feet and retrieves the other, closing the distance between them so they’re nose to nose, so he can feel McCoy’s breath on his cheek, the heat radiating off McCoy’s skin, and he can make out each individual eye-lash.

He takes a sip, then cants it towards McCoy who turns his head away, revealing a long column of tight muscle at his throat. His Adam’s apple bobs as he catches his breath, chest rising and falling with the pressure of anger, rebellion just desperate to explode.

“You were saying—?” Kirk angles his head so he can sniff at McCoy’s temple. “Aww, come on, Bones, it’s kinda rude to turn your nose up at my hospitality,” he adds brightly, “I don’t have guests in here every night, you know?”

“Yeah, none with features you’d recognize by mornin’.”

Kirk leans back, contemplates that handsome face, cataloguing the marks, trying to imagine the struggle before McCoy was brought here, when and how he got the split lip, or that very pretty bruise on his cheek. There’s a cut above McCoy’s eyebrow and a lovely, purpling line across his throat – Gaila’s trademark garrote.

McCoy’s lower lip twitches, like he’s actually _biting_ it on the inside, holding on to his control. Kirk’s half hard imaging how sweet it would be if and when that control crumbled. He runs a thumb down McCoy’s cheek, applies pressure experimentally, quirks his lips in satisfaction when he elicits a hiss of annoyance.

“You seem tense, Bones – sure you won’t have that drink?” He presses his forefinger to McCoy’s lip, guides him so their eyes catch. “Tell me, how’ve you gotten this far, a mouthy fucker like you? Man, you’re lucky to make it through the first week here, ‘mount of predators in these parts.” This close Kirk can make out flecks in the hazel in McCoy’s irises, a hint of bloodshot. Sure he’s examined them on countless vids, holos but shit, it’s like replicated coffee, nothing prepares you for the hit off the real deal… they’re— Kirk’s snapped back to reality by a growled response.

“Well, I guess I was just born lucky, _sir_.”

Kirk lets rip with a single, loud guffaw which takes him as much by surprise as it does McCoy whose head snaps back at the sound. And Kirk can’t help echoing the accent internally; yep, he’s going to have to practice that, it’ll annoy the shit our of the doc. Kirk likes that stormy expression, the way that accent loosens up along with McCoy’s inability to control his tongue. _Fuck that goes right to where it counts_ , Kirk thinks as a ripple of lust flares in his gut.

Kirk’s eyes zone in on McCoy’s taunting, arched eyebrow. He reaches round McCoy’s rigid neck and rests his fingers gently on the nape, draws him close so his lips almost brush the bruise as he speaks. “You’re going to need this drink, Bones, to dull the pain if you don’t show some respect.”

“That so?”

McCoy doesn’t shrink from Kirk’s grip, nor does he encourage it, but glares back at him, unblinking, what? _Daring_ him?

“Yes,” Kirk whispers into McCoy’s ear, trying out the Atlanta drawl when he adds, “That’s so,” and his lips quirk at the blush on McCoy’s neck, the tangible irritation that Kirk should be mocking him.

“Kneel down.” Kirk nods to the floor. McCoy’s nostrils flare while he thinks about it and then, to Kirk’s amazement, silently lowers himself to his knees.

Kirk walks a slow circle around him.

“You’re a good looking guy,” he says. “Best doctor out there,” Kirk pauses to contemplate the bound hands, ignoring the ‘fuck you very much’ glower, “but you’re not a climber, are you—?” He raises the glass to his lips, holding the bourbon in his mouth and returns to face McCoy who’s now staring at the far wall.

“You know nothing about me, Kirk.”

More than he thinks. Kirk bends over McCoy, brings his mouth close, parts his lips and aims a trickle of bourbon over the cut on McCoy’s eyebrow.

“Fuck…” McCoy hisses but stays still while the trail of liquid advances down the stubbled cheek. McCoy’s panting slightly with the pain and his lips close tight when it fades.

Kirk crouches close, traces the line with his thumb, breathes into McCoy’s ear. “That’s where you’ve got me wrong, man, I know a great deal about you.” He waits, and when McCoy doesn’t ask, he continues anyway, “See, I know about your shitty marriage, how your ex threw you out when you hit the bottle, how the bitch won’t let you see your kid. Now, let me see… what _is_ that pretty, smart-like-her-daddy, little girl’s name…?”

McCoy finally seems to lose the precarious control he’s had over his temper, and rises awkwardly to his feet. “You can do whatever the fuck you like to me, probably will anyway, but you so much as _breathe_ her name, so help me—”

Kirk cuts him off with a tug on his hair, yanking his head right back, pressing his erection into McCoy’s hip. “Interesting how you should allow yourself to lose the family silver.” Kirk chuckles, runs his hand experimentally down McCoy’s neck, dipping a finger under his collar. “No-one’s going to help you, Bones, we’re all on our fucking own in this shitty galaxy. Your ‘mamma’ never tell you that?”

He drops the glass to the floor and it rolls away as he brackets McCoy with his feet either side of him. Kirk tugs at McCoy’s collar gently, his free hand inching round to the front of McCoy’s pants where, to his delight, he notes the doc doesn’t hate being here as much as that scowl would suggest. Yep, something’s off – sure, Kirk’s not one to shy away from his obvious charms but McCoy? Seriously, he doesn’t seem the type.

McCoy shakes, twists against his hold. _At last,_ Kirk thinks, _here he is_ , the Leonard McCoy with fight he just knew was in there waiting to come out. Fuck he’s hot with that pout, those flashing eyes, the slight stoop to his back and big fucking hands twisting against the expertly tied silicone rope.

“You evil son of a bitch!”

Kirk tsks mildly, his free hand smoothing across the dried blood on McCoy’s cheek. “Evil? You _wound_ me, Bones.”

McCoy stills. “I only fuckin’ wish—” he snarls.

“Seriously?” Kirk’s amused now. “Tell me what you’d do, doctor; something with one of those scalpels of yours, or something more, I dunno, ‘artistic’ with poison? Or...aren’t you capable of harm? Seems like you’re one for the psychs – I mean, what the fuck _is_ it with you and compassion and…something ‘off’ in your genes, I’m thinking?”

“I’m one in a fucking _million_ …” McCoy growls, “and you sound like my gram.”

Kirk wonders idly if McCoy has any idea how fucking hot that voice of his is. “Skill like yours, you could advance up the ranks in no time at all, with the right connections, the right single-mindedness, the right _plan_.” Kirk doesn’t add ‘the right protection’ – of course, that’s understood, now McCoy doesn’t have the great Eleanor McCoy to watch his back. To his amusement, McCoy doesn’t seem moved to comment. “So, you know what’s going to happen here, right?”

McCoy’s shoulders stiffen but his face is a mix of resignation and disinterest.

“Well?” Kirk feels some kind of shift in the energy between them and waits.

“I’m a doctor not a fucking mind-reader.”

“Well, I’ll give you a couple of clues; I’m fond of games, Bones, restless mind and all…” McCoy lets out an irritated, barely audible sigh. “So you want me to tell you?”

“I’m fair _shakin’_ with anticipation.”

Kirk grins, touches the underside of McCoy’s chin and guides his face so their eyes meet. Kirk tilts his head to contemplate him. “Why aren’t you afraid of me, Bones?” Because really, something is fucking _off_ here.

McCoy’s eyes flicker left for a moment and a muscle twitches in his jaw. Finally he says, “Pointless.”

“Pointless to be afraid? Or are you being ungrateful and saying I’m poor company, that our conversation is pointless?” Kirk finds he likes the first option better. “Maybe if I tip the odds your way a little, hey?”

Kirk moves to the bed blocking the view to his bedside unit where he’s left McCoy’s flask, tucks it away and slides the drawer shut, sure McCoy won’t have spotted it. He retrieves his dagger from the bed where he tossed it, watches McCoy swallow as Kirk advances on him, raises it close so McCoy can get a good look at it, and makes as if to drag it across the tic in the doc’s cheek. To give him credit, the doc’s playing it cooler than most would in this situation.

Kirk smiles to himself, lets the moment hang between them, enjoying the wide eyes, the tense shoulders, then leans behind McCoy and slices through the knots securing the doctor’s hands in one movement. He steps back to let it sink in. “There, now if you’ve got a chance of escaping, maybe you can get a little scared, you know, because you might not actually make it.”

Kirk silently watches as McCoy blinks, seemingly unsure what to do with his new found freedom. He stays absolutely still where he stands other than to rub at his wrists, roll his shoulders and crick his neck. Finally, he tugs primly at what’s left of his shirt, glances at the doorway, then looks sidelong at him. He can practically hear the cogs turning in McCoy’s mind as he weighs up his options.

“Oh, and,” Kirk continues, “in case you were wondering, this _does_ mean you’re free to go. It’s been long enough, so to speak – Gaila won’t think I threw away her gift. Thing is, Bones, between you and me,” Kirk indicates with a pale hand the space between them, leans close, eyes scanning McCoy’s features for a reaction to what he’s about to say, “I’m not big on birthdays…” he gestures casually towards the door. “You going?”

McCoy stays put.

“What pleasure do you get out of this?” McCoy finally says steadily, bringing his thumb to his nose where the blood’s dried. He examines the pad of his finger, frowns.

And this is the point where the credit chip drops ; _McCoy isn’t fucking afraid of him_. Rather than it irritating him, Kirk finds this unexpectedly exhilarating. And seriously, the doc just doesn’t seem to know when to shut up.

“It’s like crushing ants under foot,” McCoy continues. “Where’s the satisfaction, the skill, the challenge to your famed genius?” His brows meet in an interested scowl, “What’s the fuckin’ point?”

Kirk actually considers this question for a moment. “I told you, Bones, I get bored. Crushing ants, well unless they’ve got mineral deposits to give up, it’s fucking boring. I want to be able to count to ten at least. Well? This is me counting to ten, by the way…ten…nine…”

 

+++ 

 

concluded in part 2


	2. Chapter 2

**part 2**

Bright, bluest eyes regard him and McCoy somehow manages to stop himself trembling with anticipation; Kirk’s charisma, his obvious arousal pins him in place.

Apart from the obvious that McCoy hadn’t intended for things to go quite like this, truth be told, once he’d realized who it was that had him at their mercy, once he’d heard the Orion’s voice cooing in his ear, even as he struggled for air with his hands scrabbling against the stranglehold – _It’s your lucky day, doctor!_ – he’d known the fates had been listening.

About goddamned time.

McCoy’s aware he has a choice now and it’s not as simple as staying or going.

He hasn’t been able to believe his luck from the moment the two descended on him outside the restaurant while he waited for a cab. Puri had warned him not to travel alone back to the campus after curfew, how he should have stayed in the city, but if there’s one thing McCoy’s learned about himself over the years, tell him _not_ to do something and – well, here he is.

‘Here’ being right where he’s _wanted_ to be, planned to be, for eighteen months. Fate may have played its hand, but now it’s up to him. He’s staring right into the eyes of the wolf. No one gets this close to Jim Kirk, not now. Thanks to Pike, thanks to Kirk’s luxurious, security-enhanced rooms in the Admirals’ Block, and thanks to his free pass to maim and punish at will. McCoy just needs to play it right so he doesn’t end up the sacrificial lamb.

It’s not how he would have planned it. Fact of the matter is he hasn’t planned fuck, leaving everything in the lap of the gods. What he has done is train himself, prepare himself to want Kirk. Prepare himself for this moment.

Now he needs to make a decision.

Should he walk, and hopefully sharpen Kirk’s interest because Mr. Prodigy has been denied a quick birthday fuck? There’s no doubting Kirk’s arousal but, from what McCoy knows of his proclivities, the kid’s interested in anything with an orifice. Most likely, if he stays, goes through with it, then leaves, McCoy will be forgotten, another meaningless conquest in Kirk’s meteoric rise.

But if he stays, if he does the exact _opposite_ of what Kirk would expect, how better to pique interest than to be unpredictable? Kirk’s pretty much confirmed to him how genius plus power often equals boredom. Then again, there’s always the chance that given a taste, Kirk won’t want to come back for seconds.

Whichever way McCoy plays it, it’s a gamble. A gamble based on his Gram’s insane notions and a reading of the kid this brutal youth used to once be.

But he doesn’t have to decide quite yet, does he?

McCoy examines the young, handsome face for a clue, sure Kirk’s hard, the boxer briefs don’t hide fuck, but that doesn’t tell McCoy anything about the _depth_ of interest. He’s got to do the right thing, this is for Jo-Jo; he pretty much gave up on himself years ago trying to exist in the moment when he’s working, and to lose himself in the bottle when he’s not.

Truth be told, McCoy fucking detests Kirk, detests the whole lot of them and their scheming, brutal ways but he can do nothing now about his physical response to Kirk’s presence; after all, he goes to sleep jerking off to images of Jim Kirk every night, relentless, single-minded in his self-training. He’s been half hard since Gaila and the other goon left, as soon as he had an inkling as to Kirk’s intent. And he fucking _saw_ his flask by Kirk’s bed. In a room devoid of personal touches and possessions, it pretty much glowed like radiation. It’s gone now – Kirk didn’t want him to see it, can’t know he did. It all means something, if only he can figure it out.

“…eight, seven…” Kirk’s waiting.

McCoy’s voice is low, tentative. “Yet you had me here against my will…”

“Like I said, you’re free to go. I don’t pay for it, McCoy and I certainly don’t rape.” Kirk’s response is a shock. “Well not anymore…” His eyes gleam.

McCoy swallows. “But you don’t stop your cronies.”

Kirk cants his head, looks surprised at such a question. “No. ‘Cronies’ as you call them aren’t as big on deferred gratification as the higher ups – so, you know, tossing the spoils of war their way, ” Kirk waves a hand casually, “letting them help themselves, keeps them loyal – sexual frustration and being a nobody’s quite a lethal combination you know.”

 _Welcome to my fucking world,_ McCoy thinks bitterly.

“Fucking’s about pleasure, right?” Kirk continues.

McCoy searches his memory banks. He half nods, thinking _easy enough for those of you with power to say_ , but settles with, “For some maybe; for most of us idiots it’s part of the struggle to live, along with every other fucking interaction in this shit fest of a universe.”

McCoy’s starting to feel cold, the ache in his shoulder, the throb in his head becoming more pronounced as all his senses heighten.

“Sure – power, possession, claiming and…” Kirk actually sneers when he says this, “…closeness, you know, if you’re mentally deficient or something.” He raises his arm, taps his temple revealing a shock of hair under his arms that sends a rush of blood to McCoy’s groin. “Wanna know what I think? One thing sex fucking _proves_ is how the _opposite_ of close we human beings are.”

“Shit, we’re having a philosophical conversation. How touching.”

“Touching? Now there’s a good idea.” Kirk holds his gaze and without preamble shimmies out of his boxers unselfconsciously. He’s hard; long, his thick cock swaying as he moves. Fuck. McCoy feels his throat constrict reflexively even as a shock of lust fills him. Here goes nothing…

By the look on Kirk’s face, McCoy’s sure the kid knows what a picture of virility he is; skin ivory and blue in the low light, surprisingly slender though muscled. Athletic, lethal, magnificent.

Kirk’s close, as close as he can be without touching, but McCoy swears he can feel the fucking air crackle between them. He’s got to get a grip as he feels star-struck; he needs not to appear eager in any way. His Gram was right, he’s got to play it unafraid, like they’re equals, stare Kirk down, _be_ his fucking self. McCoy takes in a shallow breath and draws his eyebrows together, clenches his hands into loose fists as Kirk continues to talk.

“Oh, and how could I forget, the little children,” Kirk muses, sarcastic now, contemptuous. “You gotta have somebody to leave all your bounty to, eh?”

His hands finally fucking _move_ and rest easily on McCoy’s hips, and he has to resist the urge to buck into them, painfully hard now and seriously, he has no fucking idea whether it’s because he’s so shit scared or so fucking turned on.

“Yeah, you’re going to make a lovely daddy some day,” McCoy mutters.

Kirk’s eyes flash and McCoy feels his mouth go dry. He wants to break the eye contact; Kirk uses his eyes to captivate and strip bare, and McCoy can feel them unraveling layers within him. _Hold, hold,_ he tells himself.

“I doubt it.” Kirk’s lips are tight, the bright light in his eyes appearing to dim for a moment but a blink and they’re cold, sharp blue again. McCoy feels a rush of adrenaline, sure he’s witnessed a rare, unguarded moment. Despite his injuries, his disadvantage before this rising star, for a beat McCoy feels that sense of god-like power when he holds life in his hands and he looks away, knowing now how to play this. If he’s to win Kirk’s trust, he needs to appear not to notice these moments of ‘weakness’, wasn’t that what Gram had told him all those years back?

Kirk grips McCoy’s hips a little tighter and repeats, “You can go. You can go anytime.”

His voice is husky, irritated, his breath a warm narcotic on McCoy’s skin. _Wait_ McCoy tells himself.

“So why don’t you?” Kirk demands.

Ah, where to begin? _Because I want something from you, like every other fuck who’ll cross your path for the rest of your short, brutal life_.

“Mus’ be your conversational skills,” McCoy tries, raising an eyebrow.

Kirk bares his teeth, wraps the fingers of one hand round McCoy’s windpipe, squeezes so McCoy can feel his heart hammering in his head. Just as suddenly, Kirk loosens his grip, runs pale lengths over his throat to his jaw where he grips tight, guides his mouth close to his so he has to stop himself canting towards him, claiming those pale pink lips, prevented mercifully by Kirk dragging his thumb slowly over the divot, then resting at the dip of his throat.

“I could fucking kill you,” Kirk hisses, staring at McCoy’s mouth.

“I don’t doubt that,” McCoy manages. But Kirk hasn’t. And he's suddenly sure he won’t.

“Luckily for you, you’ve piqued my interest. I suspect you’re that rare breed, that almost extinct freak of nature, you know, Bones?” Kirk drops his hand so it’s back on his hip but he neither pulls McCoy towards him, nor lets go.

“And pray, what the fuck might that be?”

“Someone,” Kirk smirks, “who can be trusted.” The last word’s sneered out like it’s a perversion.

“Well, don’t go spreadin’ it around, Kirk, else all the other psycho cadets with delusions of grandeur will want one of their own.”

Kirk laughs.

McCoy thinks a moment and adds the cautious thought, _because Kirk might be able to trust **him**_. But whether or not he’ll be able to trust Kirk back is another matter entirely. “What about the green goddess and that cur you’ve named after baked goods?”

“ _'Whom I will trust as if adders fanged_ ' – only so far as I can throw them, Bones. I can read them, I can read everyone, especially you. I know you want something from me, I might even have figured it out.” Kirk’s eyes scan his face.

“And they disgust you,” McCoy says simply. Kirk narrows his eyes at that, parses the statement. He goes on, “You want total control, power. Then when they give it to you – you despise them for it.”

Kirk’s eyes drop for a moment, thick lashes hiding what’s going on in that crazy head of his. When his gaze flickers up and their eyes catch again, he looks so fucking young for an instant that McCoy once again has to fight the urge to smother that full mouth with his. The skin around Kirk’s eyes is dark with lack of sleep, and other than the pock marks near his jaw, there’s not a line to be seen anywhere on Kirk’s face. This is in marked contrast to the multiple scars tattooing his arms and back from combat, and god knows what else. Like so many, it seems Kirk avoids medical treatment whenever possible, falling prey to hit man medics looking to advance themselves or repay debts is a serious risk.

McCoy can hear his Gram’s voice chiding him even now, _You’re hopeless, Leo, a sentimental dog_ It’s gotta be the reason why he actually feels sorry for this kid. Last time that happened, if he recalls, he got a sock in the jaw for his trouble. Still…

He raises his hand to Kirk’s wrist and circles it. Their eyes both flicker down, then up again, then lock while he guides Kirk’s hand to the front of his pants. Kirk palms him unblinkingly, and the tip of his tongue darts out between whitest teeth, a look of satisfaction flooding his features when McCoy grinds into his touch.

“Hold your horses,” McCoy says. He feels like his voice is a step behind his mind at this stage, a little giddy with the endorphins and adrenaline buzzing his system for the past hour or so. He needs to take a moment, so he releases Kirk’s wrist and backs away, turns and takes a step towards the crumpled bed.

McCoy somehow stops his hands from trembling as he undoes the one button on his shirt that seemed to escape the tussle earlier. He can do this, he’s a fucking _surgeon_. He slides the fabric off his shoulders with a slight wince, balls it up and drops it to the floor.

“And the rest,” comes the husky instruction as Kirk walks to one side of him. Kirk’s watching him, lips parted, frowning, openly appraising him while he shucks off his socks and shoes, then unzips his fly. “You always dress this nice at the infirmary?” There’s a sneer in Kirk’s voice and it crosses McCoy’s mind that Kirk genuinely didn’t know he was being brought to him. And if that’s the case, how did the Orion know it’s what Kirk would have wanted? McCoy’ll have to ponder this later – if indeed he makes it out in one piece.

“Yeah, well, you gotta make an effort for your kidnappers, else they might pick someone else.”

Kirk’s lips twitch in amusement, and he makes a small circle in the air with his forefinger, indicating McCoy should turn round for the next part so his back is to Kirk. The look of intent on his face, McCoy thinks, sulphur yellow would be a fitting color for those eyes, rather than innocent blue.

McCoy turns and as he lowers his black suit pants, he remembers bitterly how his jacket ended up in the gutter outside the restaurant, along with his comm. He takes a breath and hooks his thumbs into his boxer briefs, tries to push them down as matter of factly as he can manage, as if he’s at the gym not here, under the laser gaze of Pike’s protégé. He hears a low grunt of approval and looks over his shoulder at Kirk, feeling his ears and neck heat at the incredibly arousing sight of Kirk jacking off while he takes in the show.

“Jesus, Bones,” he says.

Kirk nods to the bed and, naked, heart hammering, McCoy sits on the side, leaning back to rest on his elbows, his cock bobbing against his thigh.

When Kirk retrieves a tube of prophylactic lube from a drawer by the bed, McCoy wonders, just for a moment, if it’s not too late to run but, then the pale, wiry figure is looming over him. He parts his legs instinctively because, fuck it, he may have turned into his very own psych experiment the way he’s trained himself to want this man, but the want is very real; the prospect of those elegant hands on him, _in him_ , of that cock in his mouth, ignites a flare deep in his belly so intense he’s fucking scared, is what he is.

Kirk drops the lube on the bed and kicks McCoy’s feet apart. “Up,” he commands and steps close. “More,” he says, and his eyes are bright with lust.

McCoy feels ridiculously self-conscious, knees to his chest, as that laser gaze tears across every part of his skin, wondering when the fuck Kirk’s going to touch him already; Kirk certainly doesn’t seem in any hurry. Instead, he sits sideways on the bed, one leg on the floor, one tucked under him, his cock, hard and leaking pre-come, swaying as he smears lube over his fingers. McCoy allows his head to fall back and brings his hands to the back of his knees.

“You done this before?” Kirk asks, dropping to contemplate McCoy’s cock and _finally_ scraping a lube covered nail up his inner thigh sending a shiver of heat up to his balls.

“No, I’m a fucking virgin. What do _you_ think?”

Kirk grins, presses a nail hard into the sensitive skin. “ _I_ think I want to see what that mouth of yours can do other than cuss and complain.” Kirk’s thumb’s found its way down to the sensitive spot under McCoy’s balls and he hisses when Kirk applies pressure then glowers at the look of amusement on Kirk’s face. “I want to see if you can still fucking grumble when I’ve got my cock up your ass.” He circles McCoy’s hole, biting at his lower lip, apparently watching his face for every twitch and response with hungry interest.

“Seems to me…you’re the one can’t fucking shut up… _fuck_!” McCoy bites out in surprise when Kirk’s thumb suddenly breaches him right up to the last knuckle. Kirk’s grin is so fucking predatory, he wants to punch him. If he wasn’t busy biting his lip so he doesn’t beg for more.

It’s odd, that even though Kirk seems to take meticulous care opening him up, experimenting with the angle, the pressure, eyes darting between McCoy’s face and the sight of his fingers disappearing and reappearing, Kirk doesn’t spare any other caress, doesn’t stroke him or lick him. Nothing. It’s like he’s being sized up as a toy – as if Kirk is working out how much fun it’s going to be stringing out his new plaything; like his prostrate, which Kirk manages to find embarrassingly quickly, is a button to press for his own amusement rather than McCoy’s pleasure.

“Put your hands above your head,” Kirk says, pulling his fingers out, leaving McCoy on the fucking edge, panting harshly and furious as hell. Nevertheless, he does as he’s told, gripping the headboard and allowing his legs to drop. Kirk’s hand goes to his own cock and he strokes himself in a leisurely manner all the while watching his face.

“Well, I’m fucking pleased _someone’s_ enjoying themselves…” McCoy mutters canting his hips up a little, feeling like he’s going to fucking howl if he doesn’t get some release soon. Truth is, watching Kirk watching _him_ is unbelievably hot. Kirk seems to have zoned in on his mouth again, and McCoy, he hopes not too obviously, is giving Kirk a little show, allowing his lips to fall apart, biting at his bottom lip, running his tongue along his teeth, pursing them ever so slightly, falling into some kind of rhythm with Kirk’s upstroke and twist.

And if he’s honest with himself, McCoy’s fucking _aching_ to touch, as much as to be touched himself.

Finally, heavens be praised, Kirk seems to tire of treating him like a porn holo and says, “Let me see what you can do with that pretty mouth, other than bitch.” Kirk climbs up onto the bed and straddles his chest, kneeling up so his reddened cock juts between them.

McCoy can feel Kirk’s eyes burning into his face as he guides his cock home. When he sucks Kirk down, the scent of him makes him groan with relief, and he doesn’t bother to smother it. He keeps his hands in place on the headboard, diverting all his need to explore and finally _feel_ this man, into his tongue, memorizing the salty tang of him, the heat, the texture of the ridge and foreskin and desperately trying not to gag at the sheer size without his hands free to guide the pace.

He feels Kirk touch his head and fully expects him to grab his ears; instead Kirk idly twists the ends of his hair in his fingers, harsh breaths the only sound in the room other than the slap of his mouth on flesh as he sucks and licks. He glances up and sees Kirk’s eyes are shut tight, mouth fallen open, head inclining forward and back in time with his own as he swallows ravenously.

“That’s turning you on,” Kirk growls, a hint of surprise in the statement. “Touch yourself, I want to watch.” Yeah, because he’s not going to do any actual work.

McCoy drops his arms in relief and rearranges himself within the bracket of Kirk’s thighs, so he’s half on his side and can reach his own cock, bloodied knuckles moving gently, making each moment last. Losing all track of time, he holds himself with a finger and thumb, licks a delicate stripe along the vein running the length of Kirk’s cock, swirls his tongue on the tip. He mirrors the pressure and speed exactly with how he touches himself, so he has some notion of how this is affecting Kirk. In the half light, Kirk’s pale and pure above him, reminding him of ancient Christian art he’s glimpsed in secret collections in admirals’ palaces.

It’s the same moment that Kirk happens to look down at him. “Jesus fuck.” He says it so it’s almost a whisper. “You’re something else, doc.” Kirk pushes at his shoulders, pulls his cock away and McCoy slumps back in relief, his jaw aching, chin covered in spit and pre-come. But, before he can enjoy the moment he shudders at the maleficent expression above him. “Stay still,” Kirk hisses.

Kirk moves so he’s kneeling on the bed, knees close to his hips and lubes himself up and before McCoy can say ‘hog roast’, Kirk’s squashed him further up the bed so his neck’s shoved up against the headboard and guided his legs so his ankles are by Kirk’s ears. He’s smothered, crushed, can barely breathe.

McCoy’s loose from earlier, but Jesus, _fuck_ , nothing prepares him for the ferocity of that first clean, brutal shove into him. He lets out a harsh gasp, echoed by Kirk as he bottoms out. It fucking hurts and he breathes through the burn, bringing his hands up to Kirk’s hips, digs his nails in hard and is repaid by a long, deep lunge which, how the _fuck?_ seems to go deeper.

Before he can find the breath to protest, Kirk rearranges his legs, folding them back onto his chest. Kirk brings his knees closer together so he can increase the angle. An experimental thrust, and when McCoy yowls as he brushes forward then back along his prostate, Kirk begins to rock in and out dropping forward to brace his arms by McCoy’s shoulders muttering a stream of profanities into his ear. His head drops and for the first time Kirk’s lips sanctify his skin. He bites and licks and tugs the skin on McCoy’s throat and chest into peaks. “Keep fucking still,” Kirk chokes out in between assaults, pinning his hands by his side.

McCoy can’t help the noises escaping his throat, as big hands spread his hips wide, pinch at his buttocks, angle him.

“You fucking like that,” Kirk breathes into his ear, gnawing at his earlobe, squashing him onto his side so his dick’s at an uncomfortable angle.

For some minutes, Kirk can’t seem to keep his eyes off the sight of his cock appearing and disappearing. He grunts, “Fuck, _fuck_!” and increases the pace, maneuvering McCoy across the bed, splaying his toes for purchase. Kirk clamps down on his bicep so he can’t move at all, twisting deep and slow with no predictable rhythm, eyes locked with his, dripping sweat onto his face.

Kirk’s neck is flushed, his eyes almost black as he gets close and McCoy’s on fire, _filled_ , unable to stop the litany of, _ung, ung_ as he’s fucked harder then he’s ever been in his life. Still, Kirk hasn’t touched his cock and when Kirk shoves him across the bed so that his head is hanging off the side and Kirk has to brace his arm on the floor to keep them balanced, McCoy splutters in frustration. He shudders at another assault on his prostate – maybe this self-prescribed brain wash was ill-conceived after all.

He looks up at Kirk’s face twisted with passion above him and can’t help wondering if he is in fact touching Kirk at all, in the way he wants to and needs to. Kirk stalls a moment, looks down at him, wiping the sweat from his eyes.

“Hey Bones, am I boring you here?”

McCoy glances up at the bright eyes, the scowl above him, and before he can stop himself, he’s pressed a reassuring hand to Kirk’s hip and is urging him forward.

“I _told_ you to stay still,” Kirk says, pulling out so he can drag McCoy further onto the bed.

 _You’re not the fucking boss of me, Kirk,_ McCoy thinks even as Kirk thrusts savagely into him again, making him buck and thrash. Then Kirk seems to sense something, blinks, narrows his eyes and sits back on his heels, pulling McCoy up with him so he’s sitting on Kirk’s lap, still impaled on his cock.

Kirk stills, wraps his arms around him and pulls him closer. Their sweat-slicked chests are pressed together, mouths close but not touching, Kirk’s hands sweeping up his sides, settling on the back of McCoy’s neck, the other, _angels of mercy, thank you_ , tight around his aching length, crushed between them. “Move you fucker, _move_ ,” Kirk breathes harshly.

As McCoy begins to raise and lower himself, he can smell the bourbon on Kirk’s breath, sees a faint twitch in his left eye; it always looked weaker than the right, wonders why, and he feels something tight and lethal unravel in his chest when a memory of Kirk in the field, with his wounded lip flashes in his mind’s eye.

Kirk’s breath is shallow, tentative, and yeah, it’s corny, but time seems to stand still, like when he’s in surgery, laser scalpel in hand, like he’s got Kirk’s life in his hands, his own fucking life too.

He can feel Kirk’s heart beating against him and, all he can see is what’s _going_ to happen, and the rest of it, everything, falls away.

His field of vision’s dominated entirely by the landscape of Kirk’s lips. He senses Kirk sagging slightly, hears a sharp inhalation as he’s getting close, as he bucks up to meet his bounce and then – McCoy jumps.

He moves both his hands, cradles Kirk’s head, leans into him and smothers his lips with a tentative, closed mouth kiss pulling Kirk tight against him.

Kirk’s rhythm falters, his hips jerk and he wrestles McCoy onto his back still buried deep, filling and stretching him. McCoy’s thighs clamp hard around Kirk’s back as he presses his tongue home. He’s never done this before, never kissed and it’s amazing and he’s not stopping now even though Kirk’s mouth struggles against his, even as Kirk fucks and thrusts, so close to coming, by the sound of his feral moans.

Kirk’s mouth is soft sharpness, lips lush and wet, tongue knifing into his, making his cock jump and ache with the need to come. He can’t touch himself though, he needs to hold Kirk in place even if he is kissing back as if his life depends on it. He’s got the god damned tiger by the tail and he can’t let go, not now. He struggles to gain purchase in the short hairs at Kirk’s temples and he pulls hard as he feels Kirk’s resistance mount. He tastes of sweetness and salt and rage and McCoy’s head spins with fear and arousal as it starts to sink in what he’s done – the fucking _taboo_ he’s broken.

A lapse in concentration, and Kirk’s jerked his mouth free, tugging and tearing at McCoy’s lips with his, biting hard, not kissing even as he can feel Kirk begin to shudder inside him.

Kirk lifts McCoy’s ass higher, folds him in half, falls across his chest so he can increase the angle, he can feel Kirk’s balls bumping against him. Hears him say, “Son of a…bitch, _fuck_.” Kirk comes with a choked, muffled groan, pulling his lips away from McCoy’s, but his hands have a hold of the back of his head, dragging him back, so he can feel Kirk shaking through his release, can taste the breath as he exhales, can feel the tremble of Kirk’s face against his.

He has him, McCoy knows this now, he fucking _has him_ and it’s like the flash before an explosion, the realization, and he comes fucking his tongue into Kirk’s yielding mouth, moaning incoherently, heat eating him up inside and out, as he gives Kirk something he knows he’s never had before. McCoy takes and takes until they’re both spent, panting against each other, mouths welded together like a wound.

Even before the last after-shock, Kirk’s already pulled out, backed away, regarding the mess of come on McCoy’s belly, frowning at him, blinking lust blown eyes. Kirk has a pale smear of his blood on his jaw, and looks so achingly beautiful he has to stop himself covering his eyes with his arm.

“Get the fuck out of here,” Kirk breathes, turns away and walks to a drawer unit. He doesn’t spare McCoy another look, simply tosses a pair of sweats and a t-shirt towards the bed.

McCoy watches Kirk’s pale ass cheeks, notes with satisfaction the score lines from his nails on Kirk’s arms and neck, as Kirk walks into the bathroom and the door hisses behind him.

McCoy feels like he might as well have been air-locked by Kirk, the way he’s having trouble drawing a full breath.

He takes a second to ball up his ruined clothing, tosses it into the recycler save for his shoes, which he slips on over bare feet, and strides out into the deserted campus.

The sun’s coming up, peaking through the fog and McCoy feels exposed in the early light, hoping he doesn’t get attacked, arrested or at the very least seen crossing the quad after curfew. It’s one thing heading over here with Kirk’s crew, they’re immune, and Gaila no doubt deals with the video feed if needed, but he’ll have trouble explaining what the hell he’s doing by the admiral’s block at this time of night, morning, whatever.

McCoy stops, raises his face upwards and scans the horizon. There’s a tiny pinprick of light left in the sky, not a star but, he knows, a planet – Venus.

+++

Kirk emerges from the bathroom as soon as McCoy’s left. He hasn’t showered – instead he passes some minutes gazing at his reflection in the mirror, touching his lips, sniffing his fingers to see if there’s any trace, any evidence of what just happened.

He places his PADD on the bed and strokes his hand across the dried come on his groin. It’s hard to tell which is his, which is McCoy’s.

Kirk’s reminded of the old Chinese proverb as he follows the labyrinth to his encrypted files.

 _Kissing is like drinking salted water; you drink and your thirst increases._

He brings up a holo of an ancient statue in bronze, long since destroyed, and the artist executed. Two figures, a man and a woman, wrapped around each other as they kiss.

Kirk licks his thumb, drags it along the space between his lips, bumps it against his teeth, feels his cock stirring as he remembers what it was like to have McCoy’s tongue in his mouth, what it was like tasting him, breathing him in.

This weakness, he needs to gouge it out, bind the wound and free himself before he’s discovered.

He wonders idly if Bones will talk. Then he opens up the file on Joanna McCoy – stares at her dark hair and blue eyes blazing defiantly back at him. A slow smile creeps across his aching mouth.

He moves to the comm button, eases into his desk chair, the replicated leather sliding against naked skin.

He’ll be fine; McCoy won’t use this against him.

Kirk looks at the statue one last time and thinks about McCoy’s soft, pliable lips, the way his tongue wormed into his mouth, how it made Kirk feel something new he can’t name, something he’s never experienced before. He frowns, shrugs, and brings up the holo of the statue again.

“Keep no possessions, there’s nothing you need,” Kirk repeats Winona’s mantra out loud, and hits the delete button.

His mother taught him well.

Kirk presses the button on his comm. “Communication for Cadet D’Angelo,” he says, and Cupcake’s tired face appears on the screen.

“Sir?” he says, his voice thick with sleep.

“Dr Snarky’s on his way back across the quad. Make sure no one jumps him and, oh, if he sees you…I’ll finish fucking up that lip of yours. We clear, Cupcake?”

Cupcake nods, salutes and the screen goes blank.

 

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is love!
> 
>  **A/N**  
>  +The statue, of course, is ‘The Kiss’, by Rodin:
> 
> +Kirk quotes from Hamlet, when he speaks of “adders fanged”.
> 
> +“ivory and blue” is borrowed from ‘Slaughterhouse 5” by Kurt Vonnegut
> 
> \+ that really _is_ a Chinese proverb
> 
> \+ Gaila’s surname (yes I made it up!) F'r’ha Jani, from the Swahili: _Furaha_ = happy and, _Jani_ = green.
> 
> \+ They say the Roman’s introduced kissing to Britain - in MU, I decided the honour should go to The Romulans. Let's hope it catches on! This idea gives me a buzz :D


End file.
